


So I sing a song of love

by corporation_tshirt



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grief/Mourning, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Beatles, The Quarrymen Era, it's just them bonding over losing their mothers, set a few weeks after Julias death, this is my first time posting anything since 2015 and i'm scared
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24571240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corporation_tshirt/pseuds/corporation_tshirt
Summary: “Do you miss her?” John pressed, hanging on Paul’s lips and on every word with a yearning longing across his features as if he needed to hear the answer, needed to know what’s to come now that his mother was dead.“You know I do, John.”-John's mum is dead and Paul wants to help his best mate get through it, but doesn't quite know how to do that. This is set in '58. Though I did write it as a Mclennon one shot you can read it as purely platonic if you want to.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	So I sing a song of love

**Author's Note:**

> Keep in mind, I am not a native speaker, so if anything sounds weird, my bad. This is honestly 40% self indulgence and 60% procrastination, but I haven't posted any of my stuff in a long time and thought maybe someone would appreciate it. If you do, feel free to leave a comment! Anyway posting on here gives me a lot of anxiety so hahaha I'll go cry in my bed now.

Paul's mouth went dry as he rang the doorbell at Menlove Avenue. His guitar hung heavy over his shoulder, though he doubted he’d need it. John wasn’t up to playing much these days anyway- but sometimes he’d still pluck a few chords, hoping his friend would join in. 

The door swung open. Mimi looked at him, forcing a polite smile on her tired face and Paul quietly noticed how thin she had gotten over the last few weeks. He didn’t know her very well of course, but he figured that behind all that strict demeanor was still just a broken woman who suffered the tragic loss of a sister. 

Offering her a warm nod, Paul smiled back. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith.”

“Hello Paul.” she greeted and took a step back, granting him to come inside. “Here to see John, I presume?”

“Yes.” 

“Well, he hasn’t gotten out of his room today, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate your company.” 

Though her expression was as tight lipped and tense as ever, Paul could see a glint of sincerity in her eyes. He was aware that she had never been particularly fond of him, only seeing him as a part of the ‘band nonsense’ she resented so much, but ever since the funeral, Paul had gotten the impression that she was warming up to him a bit more. 

Something had changed. Suddenly, the great amount of affection they both held for John connected them, built up an implicit alliance to take care of him as best as they could. 

Carefully taking off his coat, Paul hummed to himself. “I hope so.” 

In all truthfulness, he wasn’t sure if the only reason John hadn’t told him to piss off yet was simply because he was too tired to do so. Then again, it had taken Paul almost half a year to be confident in the fact that John didn’t hate him and looking back, that had probably been a little overthinking on his part, so who knew. 

“You boys have fun.” Mimi told him as he jumped up the stairs, smiling a bit wider and a bit less strained. “Call me, if you need anything.”

Knocking against the closed door of John’s room was nothing more than a polite gesture and Paul quickly pushed the handle down, not waiting for an answer that wouldn’t be coming anyway. 

John barely looked up from where he was bent over a sketchbook as his friend sat down on the carpet in front of him. His brows were scrunched together like they were when he was working on a particularly difficult chord and Paul’s heart swole at the sight of it. He took it as a good sign, the drawing. At the very least it was an improvement to the empty glares and short lived anger fits during the first days after.

“Doodling, are you Johnny?” He teased, though there was no real malice behind it. 

Finally raising his glare, John scoffed. “Sod off.” 

Laughing softly, Paul leaned forward to catch a glimpse at whatever he was sketching. He could see the vague shape of a well acquainted face, his friends calloused fingers tracing over the paper with a pencil as Paul grew a smile. 

“Elvis?” he asked, getting a cocky smirk in response that made something in Paul flutter.

John turned back to the portrait only with a noncommittal hum and Paul took a step back to look at the bed, covered with balled up and ripped off pages of other sketches. He must’ve been here drawing the whole morning, Paul figured. It was mildly surprising. He knew that John was in fact going to art school, but he didn’t recall ever seeing his friend draw in his company.

Scanning over what had been tossed to the side, one drawing in particular caught his eyes and he reached for it, gently smoothing out the paper. 

His breath promptly hitched in his lungs as he recognized the face. Brows shooting up, Paul looked at John with a surprised expression. “Hold on now. Is that me face, Lennon?” 

The portrait's features were a bit exaggerated, but undoubtedly Pauls. He stared at his own form, the long lashes and small lips carefully etched into the paper and felt his cheeks flush at the thought of John going over his every detail. 

John had put down his pencil now to look at Paul with a somewhat amused mien. “Well don’t flatter yourself too much, Macca. There’s probably a picture of me auntie Edie lying around here somewhere too.”

Suddenly he found himself unable to throw back a snarky retort, simply glancing from the slip of paper in his hands to his friend in front of him, a little dumbfounded. 

“D’you like it?” John asked now, losing the confident smirk to something more careful as he waited for Paul to answer. 

Shaking his head slightly, Paul pulled himself out of his state of awe and let a warm smile take over his face. “No, it’s great. Though I don’t think I look like this much of a bird.” he teased happily.

John barked out a laugh. “‘Course you do, Paulie. With that bum of yours-” reaching out, he slapped against Paul’s bottom to seemingly prove his point and Paul yanked his hand away as he cried out in protest. 

“Get off me, you git!” 

The next thing he felt was one of John’s strong arms around his neck, wrestling him and ruffling his styled hair. With a low thump they fell onto the ground, shoving at each other while barely being able to contain the laughter bubbling from their lips.

Things were light today and Paul was grateful. These days his friend's mood was even more unpredictable than it had been before the accident- one day everything could be fine and the next Paul felt like he was losing him again, losing him to the deep, dark hole of grief and anger inside him. But no matter how hard it was, he had promised himself he would be there for John. 

After all, he was the only one who understood how it felt. Sure, their situations were different in a lot of ways, but the pain of losing a mother was still the same and Paul wasn’t about to let his best mate go through that all by himself. 

They let go of each other and Paul rolled over, staring at the crackling ceiling, still panting slightly. Next to him, John pulled out a worn looking pack of cigarettes as he sat up and silently offered it to Paul, who took one with a thankful hum. 

Lighting it in silence, he watched John walk towards the open window, leaning against the frame and stood up as well to follow him. Their shoulders touched lightly. Birds were chirping in the trees outside, warm sunlight resting on their vibrant leaves and Paul let himself wonder about what a beautiful summer this could have been if things hadn’t happened like they did.

Instead, all he could do now was to watch his friend's heart get ripped out of his chest by the cruel and merciless claws of fate. 

“Did you talk to any of the others?” 

Paul took a long drag from the fag in between his fingers and shook his head. “No. Except George, we hung out a bit yesterday.”

Nodding, John hummed again. 

Falling back into silence, Paul thought back to the last time they had been together as a band. It had been three days before the accident, when they had finally got to record something in an actual studio rather than the shabby tape player they used before. He still remembered the giddy feeling in his gut, could still see the bright and excited grin on John's face as they shared a microphone, belting out the words to ‘that’ll be the day’ together. 

It had just been a silly demo, nothing fancy. But at that moment when they walked out of the recording studio, a feeling of standing on top of the world lingered in the air. Undefeatable was what they felt like, dangerously so. Because after every high there was bound to be a crash, pulling them back to the grounds of harsh reality. 

Three days later, there was a crash- quite literally. 

That fateful day, John had even visited Paul’s house. They had sat in his room, knee against knee as they were facing each other, playing a few notes, cracking jokes and singing songs. Everything had seemed so normal, when in hindsight he thought that something should’ve indicated what weight this day would hold. 

“I drew her too, you know.” 

John’s soft voice tore him away from his silent reminiscing. A little startled Paul stared at his friend, unsure of what to say. It was rare for them to actually talk about their mums, usually they liked to share comfort in a wordless manner and he was taken aback at the sudden change of topic.

“That right?” the words stumbled clumsily from his lips, but John didn’t acknowledge it, fixing his gaze stubbornly on the cigarette in his hand instead. 

“Yes.”

Quiet followed and all at once there was a sense of graveness pressing down on their shoulders. Paul looked at John, who stubbed out the cigs butt against his window frame, curling in on himself in the subtlest way and he could feel the tension, radiating off his friend. When he finally raised his gaze to meet Paul’s, there was a pleading flash in his brown eyes. 

“Your mum- did you forget? What she looked like, I mean.” nervously John slipped his hands into his pockets and averted his eyes once again. 

“What do you mean?” he said, scrunching his eyebrows together. “Y’know, we’ve got pictures and stuff. I still remember her.”

“Yes, but when you close your eyes. Can you still picture her like you used to? Even now, after the time that has passed?”

It took Paul a moment to figure out what was lacing his friends voice as he asked those questions, but quickly realized that it was fright. John was scared, scared of losing the few precious memories he had of his mother, scared his impression of her would just fade out as time went on and a painful jab tore through Paul’s chest, because it was exactly the same sort of grief he had to bear only a few years ago. 

An urge to pull John into a tight hug and shield him from the pain caught him off guard, but he settled on shuffling close enough that their shoulders connected in a comforting manner and let out a deep sigh. 

For a second he contemplated making up a lie that may be more comforting than the bare truth, but this was John he was talking about. He deserved an earnest answer.

“It’s different, y’know. I can still see her, vividly. But it feels more like a dream, less real.” 

The words were like a corset, tightening his chest the more he spoke. He had learned to live with it, learned to suppress the emotions, but he wasn’t used to talking about it. Swallowing hard Paul grabbed at his own shoulders. 

“Everything about her does, actually. Her voice, what she smelled like. The way we used to live when she was around. I know all that stuff, but sometimes it’s hard to understand that it all really happened.”

“Do you miss her?” John pressed, hanging on Paul’s lips and on every word with a yearning longing across his features as if he needed to hear the answer, needed to know what’s to come now that his mother was dead.

“You know I do, John.”

Paul felt the quiver in his voice as he spoke. He could sense himself treading on thin ice, almost breaking the wall he had built up between him and the emotions that connected to his mum, but he took a deep breath and strived to keep his composure. 

Hiding behind a facade of fake smiles and laughs as well as to simply keep going was what got him through her death and what allowed him to live his life as best as he could. It was his form of dealing with pain just as it was his father's- however, everything he had wished for during these last few weeks was a way to help John, to reach him in the dark space he had fallen into and pull him out of it. 

For the first time since Julia died he seemed to break free from the numbness that had enveloped him like a dark cloud and Paul was not about to let that go. If being honest and open was all it took, he could manage that. 

“No, I don’t. You never talk about her.”

Flinching at the accusing tone in his friend's voice, he nervously tugged at a strand of dark hair, trying to brush off the hurt and sighed.

“Well that’s because I know she wouldn’t have wanted me to be all sad and weepy all the time, you know. She would’ve wanted me to get on with my life. I think about her a lot though.”

John stared at him. “You do?”

“Of course. Sometimes, when we’ve got a gig somewhere, I imagine her in the audience, listening to us play. Me da’ doesn’t want me to be a musician, but mum would’ve loved this.”  
Trailing off, Paul pushed himself away from where he was leaning against the wall and walked across the room. He sat down on the floor, his back turned to the frame of John’s bed, pulling the knees closer to his chest as an image of his mother's proud smile flashed before his eyes and sent a harsh pain through his body, knowing he’d never be gifted one of those again. 

“I’d give anything to show her a song of mine. Just once.”

He felt John’s stare pierce through him and worried his lip, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and exposed. No answer came, but instead John followed his path, sitting down beside him in a silent gesture of support. 

“I have no bloody idea how you do that.” he said quietly, looking at Paul. “Go on as if nothing happened.”

Snorting a little awkwardly he kneaded his fingers together. “There’s not really another option, is there? And no matter how sad I am, it’s not like it’ll bring her back anyway. All I can do really, is to live my life and hope that she’d be happy if she could see me now.”

A few more moments passed with nothing filling the silence except their own thoughts. Then John stood up and Paul promptly knew that this conversation, this rare moment of unveiling their emotions, was over. He watched his friend, crossing the room to a crummy corner, taking something in his hands carefully.

Paul’s heartbeat fastened when he realised what it was. 

Making a show of it, John blew the thin layer of dust off his guitar frame, shooting him a playful grin as he did so and pulled the instrument up on his knee. A few dim notes flew into the air. Paul studied John’s face carefully, saw his eyes trained on the worn out strings and watched as his friend's smirk drifted into a thoughtful frown. 

Instinctively he was painfully aware of the fact that this had to be the first time John even looked at his guitar since it happened. There was no doubt that this guitar connected him to Julia more than he’d ever admit loudly- it was her who bought it for him after all. 

“So.” John started, seemingly shaking off whatever bittersweet memory was nagging at him and smiled at Paul. “C’mon Paulie, you wanna show me some of that stuff you’ve been working on?”

No matter how easily Paul could still see the sadness glancing in his eyes, those words sent an overwhelming wave of happiness and relief to wash over him. Music was good. Music was everything they needed to let the bleeding wounds life had left them with start healing. 

Smiling back at John just as widely, he raised his eyebrows in pleasant disbelief.

“You want to hear it?” 

“Of course. Who else is going to tell you how shit it is?” 

A laugh bubbled out of Paul’s chest and he stood up from where he was cowering on the ground to unpack his guitar. “I write better songs than you in my sleep, Lennon.”

“Big words for someone who lets his dad tell him what to wear.” 

Paul knew that the glare he threw over his shoulder probably didn’t fulfill its intended purpose thanks to the wide grin still painted all over his face, but he also couldn’t bring himself to care that much. Right now he was simply glad, finally feeling like his best mate was coming back to him. 

And when they sat across from each other, playing and singing everything that came to mind, the music enveloped them, warm and comforting, whispering quiet reassurances that they were going to be okay. It still hurt- Paul wasn’t sure if it’d ever stop hurting, but it was soothing to think they could always come back to this.


End file.
